


The Heart of the Ocean

by somebodyswatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Titanic (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossover, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mystrade on the Titanic, Romance, putting my masters degree in history to good use, well you try writing the titanic without it being romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebodyswatson/pseuds/somebodyswatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen year old aristocrat Mycroft Holmes, expecting to be married to a rich heiress, falls in love with the handsome but poor police-artist Greg Lestrade on board the ill-fated R.M.S. Titanic. For the tumblr Ao3 Auction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely MadGerman for the tumblr Ao3 auction.
> 
> A huge, HUGE thank you to the wonderful ShinySherlock for her beta-ing and encouragement and copious amounts of enthusiasm :D

He never thought this day would come, but even so, as he stared at the image on the television, he realised that he had been waiting for it. He had assumed that any diamond hunters would have thought to check the safe long before now, but then, as he reminded himself daily, not everyone’s mind worked like his. He thought of the hiding place as obvious, but it had taken them 84 years. He felt the hint of a blush creep across his cheeks as he stared at the drawing they were examining. He had assumed that it was destroyed, irreparably damaged by the water, lost forever in the wreckage. One more thing that existed only as a memory.

“Anthea, turn that up, will you?” he asked, and his assistant dragged herself away from her new Nokia Communicator text-messaging machine for just long enough to do as he asked before returning to the thing as though it were glued to her hands. He listened to the conversation between the reporter and the head of the expedition for as long as he could bear it. The man, Lovett, was pretending to be excited about the picture because it was a beautiful piece of art that deserved to be admired. It was beautiful, and Mycroft smiled to himself at the memory of the skilled hands that had drawn it. But Mycroft could see the disappointment in the diver’s eyes, and the desperation in the slant of his shoulders. The picture was not the find he had hoped for.

Was there a date on the drawing? Of course, there must be; the artist was a professional after all. So this Lovett man must know that the picture was drawn on the day of the sinking. Irrevocable proof that the diamond must be somewhere on board. He smiled a knowing smile before asking Anthea to bring him the phone and a stopwatch.

He let her dial the number, and set up the timer. Under a minute, he estimated, between him saying his name and travel arrangements being made for him. A minute and a half at a push.

The line was crackly and the voice on the other end was punctuated with bursts of static, but he managed to convince the lackey who answered the call that he deserved to be redirected, and waited impatiently for the line to connect.

“This is Brock Lovett. What can I do for you, Mr... ?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he answered, and pointedly ignored the furrowed brow and questioning look of Anthea, starting the timer. It was a name that he hadn’t used in a long time.

“Mr Holmes.”

“I was just wondering if you had found the ’Heart of the Ocean’ yet, Mr Lovett.” Mycroft smiled at the flurry of activity on the other end of the call as Mr Lovett almost dropped the phone in shock.

“Alright. You have my attention, Mycroft. Can you tell me who the man in the picture is?”

Mycroft smiled. “But of course. The man in the picture is me.”

There was another scramble of movement on the other end, and when Lovett asked whether it would be possible for Mycroft to visit the dive site, the old man stopped the timer and handed the phone to Anthea. She was better at arranging that sort of thing than he was. The timer said 54 seconds. He had been right. His age may have been in triple figures, but his mind was just as sharp as it had always been.

***

They sent him a helicopter. They were so desperate for information leading to the discovery of the diamond that they sent a helicopter to collect him within the hour. It was the furthest out to sea Mycroft had been since it happened. He had no desire to return to England and had certainly never wished to set foot on another boat again. Anthea sat beside him; her presence alone was a comfort to him. He knew what theories the explorers would have formed about him, and Anthea would be his shield against them. They would think him a liar, senile, after money or publicity. He just wanted to see his picture. A physical piece of evidence that it actually happened, that it was real.

They refused to let him walk, a team of young men instead choosing to lift him, wheelchair and all, from the helicopter and onto the deck. The noise, the sway of the boat, and the bubbling anticipation of seeing his drawing after so many years; it was too much. He could hear shouting, people calling to him, but he just had to try and block it out. He wanted to save his analytical prowess for the picture, perhaps notice details in it that he had forgotten, or had not noticed the first time.

Anthea noticed his agitation and wanted him to rest, but he refused, insisting on being taken directly to the picture. _His_ picture. Mycroft raised his eyebrow at her, and she didn’t argue, accepting instead the silent compromise that he had to stay in the chair.

The drawing was beautiful, the lines were sure and the shading perfect. Even without the memories associated with it, Mycroft liked to think that he would still have admired it, just for the pure joy of the piece of art. He stared at the page, and a version of himself 84 years younger stared back, an expression of wonder and defiance on his face (or was he just seeing it because of the memories that came rushing back to him? He couldn’t be sure). The paper was submerged in a tray of water in order to preserve it, and the sway caused by the movement of the boat made it look like the subject was moving, like he was alive once more.

He remembered what it felt like, to lay there like that on the sofa in the middle of the room, clutching his fiancée’s necklace in his fist, the gem a cold weight against his bare hip, feeling the eyes of the artist upon him, the thrill of vulnerability as he allowed the other man to just _look_ , hiding nothing, allowing those brown eyes to sweep over every inch of him, committing the image of his body to paper.

Mycroft was aware that the young man, Lovett, was trying to attract his attention, and dragged his eyes away from the drawing, and his mind away from the memories. Lovett wasn’t exactly ‘young’ as the term is generally used, but to Mycroft, who was rapidly approaching 101, everyone was young. Lovett was pale and blonde, with bright and suspicious eyes. Mycroft could see that the dive was putting a great amount of pressure on him; his employer was badgering him for updates hourly, and his wife was threatening to leave him if he didn’t spend more time at home. A lot was riding on the information that Mycroft could give him.

Lovett crouched before Mycroft’s wheelchair and placed a photo of the blue diamond necklace upon his knee.

“Louis the Sixteenth wore a fabulous stone, called the Blue Diamond of the Crown, which disappeared in 1792, about the same time that Louis lost everything from the neck up. The theory goes that the crown diamond was chopped too... recut into a heart-like shape... and it became The Heart of the Ocean. Today it would be worth more than the Hope Diamond.” Lovett looked more at Anthea as he said this, possibly attempting to impress her, probably thinking that Mycroft was too old and decrepit to understand such complex details.

“It was a dreadful, heavy thing,” Mycroft said, not bothering to hide the disgust that came out in his voice. “It only came out of the box that one time.”

“You actually think this is you?” Anthea asked. She gazed at the image with apparent disinterest, but Mycroft could see the curiosity blooming beneath the mask.

“It is me, dear,” Mycroft asserted, “Though perhaps a direct visual comparison would be ill advised.” An undercurrent of quiet and slightly embarrassed laughter filled the room, as the occupants tried not to connect the image on the page with the wizened and wrinkled old man before them.

Lovett smiled again, and pointed to the photo that still sat in Mycroft’s lap. “I tracked it down through insurance records... an old claim that was settled under terms of absolute secrecy. Can you tell me who the claimant was, Mycroft?” His tone was condescending, as though he was talking to a child. His brother would have responded by reeling off every shocking fact that he could deduce about everyone in the room, but Mycroft was more dignified than that. Besides, he was too old for theatrics.

“I should imagine someone called Moriarty,” he replied, and knew from the shift in the air that he had given the right answer. Lovett stood up, and finally dropped the condescending tone.

“James Moriarty, yeah. He bought the stone in France for his niece as an engagement present, and was travelling on Titanic with her fiancée, M Holmes, who was on the list of those unaccounted for after the sinking.”

“Me. Of course, I stopped going by that name when we got to shore,” he sighed. Anthea almost dropped her phone. Mycroft took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, a silent promise to explain everything. The poor woman had spent nearly 24 hours a day with him for going on eight years. He hoped that she wouldn’t be too upset to find out just how little she knew of him and his life. He had grown to care for her company very much, even if he never told her so. Lovett noticed none of Anthea’s discomfort, and carried on undisturbed.

“The claim was filed in America right after the sinking. So the diamond had to have gone down with the ship. See the date on the picture?” Lovett pointed to the drawing and Anthea squinted slightly at the blurred numerals.

“14th April 1912.”

“Which means, if your grandfather is who he says he is, he was holding the necklace on the day the Titanic sank.” Neither Mycroft nor Anthea bothered to point out that they weren’t actually related. It was neither important nor insulting, so they didn’t attempt to deny it. “Making you my new best friend,” Lovett added, the condescending tone creeping back into his voice. Mycroft was tempted to tell him that if he didn’t call his wife soon then she would be driven back into the arms of the older man she had previously had an affair with, but he resisted.

***

Lovett led them through to another room, filled with computer equipment. Mycroft didn’t recognise most of it; he left that sort of thing to Anthea, as she was young and more technologically inclined than he was. The television screens showed live footage from two divers who were wandering the wreck below; one in the dining room and the other in a corridor on deck B. A big, burly man with a large amount of facial hair and badly-managed diabetes who had lied to his boss about his qualifications watched Mycroft carefully. Lovett introduced him as Bodine.

“Live from 12000 feet,” Bodine said proudly. Mycroft suppressed the urge to state that this was obvious. “We got a simulation of the sink. Wanna see?” The bearded man was excitable; he had created the simulation himself, and clearly didn’t get to show it off very often. Mycroft offered him a strained smile.

“Is that a good idea, Mr Bodine?” asked a mousy woman from the corner of the room, an unpaid intern by the look of her wrists. “The gentleman might not want to see...” Bodine ignored her, starting up his simulation.

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft reassured her with a smile. “I’m actually quite interested.” By the look on her face, Mycroft surmised that his was the most attention anyone had paid to her since her arrival on the boat.

Bodine hit a few buttons on a computer, an image of the ship appeared on a screen, and the animation moved along at the same pace as his well-practiced narration.

“She hits the berg on the starboard side and it sort of bumps along . . . punching holes like a Morse code, dit dit dit, along the side, below the water line. Now the forward compartments start to flood . . . and as the water rises, it spills over the watertight bulkheads, which unfortunately don’t go any higher than E deck. As her bow is going down, her stern rises up . . . slow at first . . . and then faster and faster until finally it’s got her whole ass is sticking up in the air, and that’s a big ass, we’re talking 20 or 30 thousand tons . . . okay, now the hull isn’t designed to deal with that pressure . . . so what happens? SKRTTT!! . . . She splits! Right down to the keel. Now stern falls back level . . . then as the bow sinks, it pulls the stern vertical, and then finally detaches. The stern section just sort of bobs there like a cork for a couple of minutes, floods, and then goes under about 2:20 a.m. Two hours and forty minutes after the collision.”

The animation followed the bow of the ship as it slipped under the water. Lovett and Anthea were watching Mycroft for his reaction, but he gave them nothing, listening closely to the scientifically accurate appraisal from the bearded man. It was an increasingly common scenario; this man, this treasure hunter who called himself a historian, felt no connection to the events he researched. For Bodine, and many others, events of the past were just things that happened, things to be analysed, to have cause and effect and a timeline established, and then to be left alone, consigned to the history books. It wasn’t real to them like it was to Mycroft. It was just a story, it didn’t involve actual things happening to actual people.

“The bow section planes away, about half a mile, going 20 or 30 knots when it hits the ocean floor KABOOM! Pretty cool, huh?” Mycroft smiled again, almost genuinely this time.

“Thank you sir, for that fine forensic analysis. My brother would have been most impressed.”

“You could explain it better,” Anthea told him quietly, and he didn’t disagree.

Lovett looked like he could have kissed her, but thankfully refrained. “Will you tell us about it?” He was fighting with himself, trying not to act too much like an excited puppy at the thought of the information Mycroft could give him.

Mycroft looked over at another of the computer monitors, where the video from below deck was still playing a live feed. He pulled himself to his feet, stepping closer to get a better look. Yes, this was the upper deck. It was now just a semi-rotten lump, but once it had been a grand doorway, with a footman on either side, each dressed in elegant suits, leading through to a room full of life and dancing. He could almost hear the music playing, the night when he was there, in his borrowed finery with his stunning smile… Mycroft’s knees gave way, and Lovett dashed forward to catch him before he hit the floor, practically carrying him back to his chair.

“I’m going to take him for a lie down,” he heard Anthea say, and could imagine Lovett nodding, the bearded man’s silent agreement, the mousey intern’s quiet concern. He tried to object, but the hands pulling him were stronger than his own.

“No!” he cried, and everything stopped. All eyes were upon him, questioning, assessing. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into a meditative trance in order to slow his heart-rate. _Hold my brain; be still my beating heart_. Well that memory certainly wasn’t going to help proceedings.

Lovett was the first to move, taking a voice recorder and setting it up on the table.

“Tell us, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s been 84 years,” he tried to protest. It was a lousy excuse and he knew it. He had been clinging to those memories so hard that he could remember the details of those days better than the details of the previous week.

“Just tell us what you can.” Mycroft looked at the eager and expectant faces of the other four people. Anthea’s phone had been abandoned somewhere, all pretence of disinterest gone with it. He owed it to her at least. She deserved to know.

“Do you want to hear this story or not, Mr Lovett?” Mycroft asked, in protest to the interruption. The bearded man laughed, and Lovett remained thankfully silent.

Mycroft cast his mind back to the beginning, to memories he had never allowed to fade with time. He had pretended to himself for so long that these were events that happened to somebody else; a tale he had been told by an old friend from long ago. A name he no longer used, a history he no longer admitted to. A story he wished had never come to an end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Southampton, 10 th April 1912**

Mycroft made an attempt at being interested in the proceedings, but couldn’t summon the required effort to even feign enthusiasm. He surveyed the pier through the window as the car edged through the throng of people; people were streaming forward to board the ship, jostling with hustling seamen and stokers, porters, and White Star Line officials barking orders. People embraced each other and shared tearful farewells, or waved and shouted to the people already on board. The atmosphere was electric, giddy, and excited; apparently Mycroft was the only person not looking forward to this endeavour, the only person within miles not looking forward to the moment when the great ocean liner would set sail.

Above them all, the Titanic rose from the water, the enormous superstructure gleaming a brilliant white in the noon sun, the four black and gold funnels rising high into the sky like the pillars of a Greek temple, all onlookers staring up at it in reverence.

The car stopped, the crowd of people ahead too dense to drive any further. The uniformed driver scuttled around to open the door for Mycroft, and he climbed out, surveying the scene and the ship before him.

“I don't see what all the fuss is about. It doesn't look any bigger than the Mauretania,” Mycroft grumbled quietly.

Behind him, on the other side of the car, Moran, the valet, had opened the door for Mycroft’s travelling companion. James Moriarty was in his mid-thirties, and still darkly handsome, his thick black hair slicked back, his grey suit perfectly pressed into clean, sharp lines to betray his fantastic wealth, his egotism clearly displayed in his arrogant smile.

“You can be blasé about some things, Mycroft, but not about Titanic. It's over a hundred feet longer than Mauretania, and far more luxurious. It has squash courts, a Parisian cafe... even Turkish baths.”

Mycroft nodded absent mindedly, still unimpressed. “And they say she’s unsinkable.”

“It is unsinkable!” Moriarty declared, sounding so proud of the floating monstrosity that one could be forgiven for thinking that he was solely, or at least partially responsible for its extravagant existence. “God himself couldn't sink this ship!”

A porter hurried towards them and grasped Moriarty’s arm, forgetting himself in his stress over the last minute preparations.

“Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, round that way--”

Moriarty nonchalantly handed the man a five pound note. The porter’s eyes dilated in shock; he had probably never held such an amount of money in his hands at one time before, and likely never would again. Moriarty grinned at the effect his money could have on the unwashed masses.

“I put my faith in you, good sir. See my man,” the aristocrat said breezily, indicating towards Moran. The valet was an intimidating man, tall and serious as an undertaker, but he wasn’t nearly as intimidating as the pile of luggage the party had with them; about a dozen trunks, several suitcases, a wooden crate and a heavy steel safe. Suddenly the £5 tip didn’t seem so generous.

The two gentlemen strode along the pier, past the health inspection queue at the third class entrance where the passengers were being checked for signs of lice, avoiding the exhilarated children playing tag in their Sunday best as they waited for their turn to be led down the cattle chute.

They reached the gangway for first class and joined the orderly queue of more civilised people. Mycroft looked up at the ship, a wall of bible-black steel, waiting to engulf him and carry him to his doom.  Moriarty gestured for Mycroft to move forward, and the younger man had no choice but to follow his request. It was too late to turn back now. Mycroft knew that for most people the Titanic was the ship of dreams, and though he knew he was being melodramatic, he couldn’t help but feel that for him it was a slave ship, taking him to America in chains. Outwardly he was everything a seventeen year-old gentleman should be -- tall with a stately posture, sharply dressed and using his umbrella as a cane, his gingery curls delicately framing his pale face, his intelligent eyes seeming to miss nothing, well-educated with excellent business connections -- but internally he was screaming. The surrender of his free will was not an enjoyable feeling, and went against his every instinct.

They entered the ship on Deck D, and a uniformed official checked their names off his list as he warmly welcomed them on board; Moriarty slipped a coin in the man’s top pocket for the gesture. The first class entrance was richly decorated. Although it would later be simply the bit of corridor connecting the dining hall to the reception room, somebody had clearly thought about the fact that it would be the first part of the ship the first class passengers would see. The walls were a pale gold colour with mahogany panelling, and the floor was covered in the latest initiative -- linoleum -- a plastic sheeting designed to look like tile. The whole ship was a floating piece of art.

The rumbling of the engines steadily increased, unnoticed by most until it reached an unbroken humm, and the horn started to blow, signalling their imminent departure. The two gentlemen were led through corridors to their suite, where they were met by their luggage, brought by men in identical pristine white uniforms, and unpacked for them by women in the traditional maid’s uniform of a black dress and starched white apron.

Their suite was magnificent, even Moriarty was forced to admit it. It was decorated in the Empire style, with panelled walls, plush carpets, vases of fresh flowers, and beautifully carved oak furniture. There was a large sitting room, a fifty foot private promenade deck, a bathroom with plumbed bath and hot running water, a wardrobe room, and three bedrooms with adjoining doors; Moriarty in the master room, Mycroft in the middle, and Moran on the end in the slightly smaller room specifically designed for a valet or maid.

To Mycroft, the sleeping arrangements were the perfect metaphor for the rest of his life; Moriarty and his servant surrounded him and watched his every move, forcing him to creep around on tiptoe if he ever hoped to do a single thing without their detection.

The hum of the engines reached a peak, and the lurch in his stomach told him they were finally moving; Mycroft prayed that he wasn’t about to be seasick. The cheering and shouting from outside confirmed that they were leaving port, as the third and second class passengers cried out their final farewells to the lucky individuals being left behind. There would be few first class passengers out on deck; their goodbyes would have been much more dignified, conducted in the foyers of homes and hotels.

As he accepted a glass of bucks fizz from the room service waiter, Mycroft suddenly wished he’d had the chance to say a proper goodbye to his brother. Sherlock may have been the reason Mycroft was here, but the elder Holmes couldn’t find it in himself to hate his baby brother. Sherlock had to choose between do or die; Mycroft’s options had been do or see his brother die. And as the ship left Southampton and headed for Cherbourg, Mycroft knew that only the loss of someone he loved would be worse than the fate that he now faced.


	3. Chapter 3

**11 th April 1912**

By the next afternoon, the Titanic was on its way, with nothing out ahead of her but open ocean. The prow of the ship cut through the water like a knife through butter, and the breeze rippled through Mycroft’s hair like a song. The captain made himself visible, taking tea out on deck, surveying the smooth running of his ship like a proud father, and two third class passengers stood on the front railing, declaring that they were kings of the world. Mycroft wished he could enjoy the experience, but every appearance of Moriarty or Moran brought him back to reality with an increasingly painful thump.

The stops at Cherbourg, France and Queenstown, Ireland had been mostly uneventful for the passengers on board, though it did provide entertainment in the form of new passengers, if that could be called entertainment. The most talked about of the new passengers was a woman named Martha Hudson, who caused a scandal upon arrival by carrying her own bags instead of allowing the porter to carry them for her. Also among the newcomers were the ship’s financer, Bruce Ismay, and designer, Thomas Andrews. Moriarty pulled some strings and ensured that all three were seated at the same table as he and Mycroft for dinner.

Also joining them, to even out the numbers, were two women, who both appeared to be in fashion; one a designer, judging by the state of her left thumb, and the other clearly a writer. They appeared to know each other by reputation and pointedly refused to speak to each other for the duration of the meal. 

“She’s the largest moving object made by the hand of man in all of history,” Mr Ismay boasted, resisting the constant urge to twiddle with the tips of his handlebar moustache. “And our master shipbuilder, Mr Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up.”

He gestured towards his college, who looked uncomfortable with all attention focused on him. He was a softly spoken Irishman, in his early thirties, who clearly became a designer because he preferred the quiet solitude that sitting drawing allowed; Mycroft quite liked him.

“Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is, willed into solid reality.” Despite his discomfort, the pride Mr Andrews had in his creation was clear in his eyes.

“Why are ships always called ‘she’?” Mrs Hudson asked. “Is it so men can talk about a lady’s ‘stern’ in polite company without causing outrage?” The other diners laughed and Mrs Hudson smiled, not entirely unaware that they were laughing more at her than with her. She was what people were calling New Money; born into a lesser class and largely uneducated before her husband made a name for himself, allowing them to buy their way into society. She looked and dressed like a lady, but she had the voice and restraint of a commoner on the street. Mycroft quite liked her as well.

The waiter arrived at the table to take their orders for the main course. Most ignored him, but the uneducated eyes of Mrs Hudson followed him as he did his rounds.

“We’ll both have the lamb,” Moriarty told him, indicating towards Mycroft. “Rare, with very little mint sauce.”

Mycroft felt like he’d been slapped in the face. A man normally ordered for his wife, a sign of his power over her, and a symbol of her inherently female indecisive nature. To order for another man was a blatant insult, a clear sign to all present that under no circumstances did he regard the man seated next to him as his equal.

The waiter glanced at Mycroft as if to receive confirmation, but Moriarty was having none of it. “What are you waiting for? I just gave you his order. Tell me, when I have you fired, will they confine you to quarters or simply throw you overboard?” The waiter scuttled away without another word.

Mrs Hudson watched the exchange with surprise. “Are you going to cut his meat and maybe eat it for him too, Jim?” she asked venomously. The two glared at each other for a moment before Mrs Hudson broke the tension with a false smile. “So, who came up with the name Titanic?” she asked loudly, addressing the table at large. “Was it you, Bruce?”

“Yes, actually,” Mr Ismay replied. “I wanted to convey sheer size. And of course, size means stability, and luxury and safety-“

“Do you know of Mr Freud?” Mycroft interrupted.

“No, who is he, another passenger?”

“A writer, an Austrian doctor of neurology. His theory on the male preoccupation with size may be of particular interest to you, Mr Ismay.”

The two fashion ladies missed the joke, but Mrs Hudson’s eyes widened in shock and amusement, and Mr Andrews almost choked on a bread stick as he struggled not to laugh out loud.

“I see I shall have to mind more carefully what you read from now on, Mr Holmes” Moriarty warned. The corners of his mouth curved upwards into a smile, but his eyes flashed with humiliated anger.

Mycroft rose to his feet and threw his napkin down onto his plate. “If you’ll excuse me I need some air.”

He left the dining hall in a trance. This was to be his life now. He was to live under the thumb of James Moriarty, the subject of ritual humiliation, a well-dressed puppet. He stepped out into the night, pulling in lungfulls of refreshingly cold air. This was his life. This was his choice.

He walked along B deck as calmly as he could, his head spinning. He couldn’t live like this, waiting for either himself or Moriarty to die so that he could reacquire his freedom, systematically having the life stamped out of him. He descended the steps to the poop deck and carried himself to the very back of the ship. Below him, the propellers created a creamy white froth on the surface of the water, the swash of the water a calming sound.

When Sherlock found himself in this position, do or die, he had chosen the second option, rejecting Moriarty’s offer, staring him in the face and saying he’d rather forfeit his life. Could Mycroft do the same? Looking down at the churning water, he knew he could. He had to. He placed his hand on the cold steel of the railing, and lifted himself onto the first rung. It was built like a ladder, inviting the idea, designed for this very purpose, to give Mycroft his freedom. He ascended another rung, then another, climbing over to the other side and carefully arranging himself, facing out to sea, holding on to the railing behind him, straightening his arms so that he was leaning out over the water. How easy it would be, to simply let go and let the suffocating life he was living sail away and leave him behind. To not have to deal with it, any of it, any more. It would be such a relief. He took a deep breath.

“Don’t do it.”

The voice broke Mycroft out of his trance. He whipped his head around to see the source of his interruption, and his eyes settled on a young man, about the same age as Mycroft. He was handsome, with dark hair, the rugged complexion of a man who spends most of his time outdoors, and was dressed in course layers. He stood about twenty feet from the railing, his stance defensive, and a lit cigarette in his outstretched hand. Mycroft wondered how long he had been there. Had he somehow walked straight past the man? Or had this third class passenger for some reason followed him?

“Stay back!” Mycroft cried. “Don’t come any closer!”

The man ignored him, and edged closer. He switched his cigarette to his other hand, and stretched his arm out towards Mycroft.

“Give me your hand, I’ll help you back over.”

Mycroft hesitated. This man was acting as though Mycroft had ended up where he was by accident.

“No! Stay where you are. I’ll let go!”

The man edged closer and, holding up his cigarette to show his intention, shuffled a little nearer to the edge so that he could throw it overboard. He was now about five feet from Mycroft, close enough to see that his eyes were dark, and a hint of stubble grew around his chin.

“No, you won't” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mycroft was suddenly angered. He’d had enough of people dictating his life to him; that was why he was here after all, to escape the pressures of other people! And now this man, this nobody, was joining in with them.

“Excuse me! What do you mean? How dare you presume to tell me what I will or will not do?”

The man put his hands up, palms forward, the universal sign for peace. “I just meant, if you were going to do it, you would have done it already.”

Mycroft was confused. He had been so sure a moment ago, this was the only way out, the perfect way out. But now, the presence of this man made him forget all of those wonderful reasons. Was it do or die? Or do _and_ die.

“You’re distracting me, go away.”

“I can’t, I’m a bit too caught up in this to leave now. If you let go of that railing, I have to jump in there after you.” As if to emphasise his point, the man pulled off his jacket in preparation.

“Don’t be absurd. You’d be killed” Mycroft stated, false confidence in his voice.

“I can swim.”

“And? The fall alone would kill you.”

“No, I don’t think so, not from this high. It’d hurt though. I’m more concerned about that water being cold.”

The man was pulling off his boots now, still preparing to live up to his word.

“How cold?”

“Freezing, maybe a degree under.”

Mycroft snorted. “The current air temperature is below freezing, the water will feel comparatively warm!”

“Well, if you say so, you’re the one with the fancy education. I’m just not so sure. Ever been to Kinross?” Mycroft stared at him, perplexed by the sudden twist in the conversation. The man raised an eyebrow and, realising the stranger was awaiting an answer, Mycroft shook his head. “It’s in Scotland-“

“Yes, thank you, I’d worked that out” Mycroft snapped.

“Sorry, just you look like more of a city boy with the fancy suit and all.”

“You’re hardly Scottish,” Mycroft grumbled, “isn’t that accent Somerset?”

The man nodded. “From near Bristol,” he acknowledged. “Anyway, as I was saying, I went away to Kinross with my dad before he died, and there was this frozen lake, Dow Loch. I went through some thin ice, and I’m telling you, being in water that cold, it’s like being stabbed, over and over again, by a thousand knives. Shock forces you to breathe in, so you breathe in water, so then you get it from the inside too. You stop being able to think about anything but the pain. Which is why I really hope you don’t let go. I’m really not looking forward to going in there after you.”

Mycroft thought about it. Not being able to think any more sounded like a welcome relief. A few minutes of physical pain sounded better than the eternity of mental agony and humiliation he would otherwise endure. But he couldn’t force the same fate onto this other man, this well-meaning but hapless stranger who had taken it upon himself to save Mycroft from deamons unknown.

The man took a final step forward, and now stood within touching distance.

“Take my hand,” he whispered, right hand outstretched, palm inviting. A smudge of high quality charcoal on his thumb. An artist?

Mycroft knew that he couldn’t let this man jump after him. He wanted out, more than anything, but he couldn’t do it if it meant ending the life of this stranger as well. He looked at this man’s eyes; warm and kind, framed by dark lashes and faint laughter lines. A face accustomed to both squinting at details and to smiling. Mycroft released the breath he had forgotten he was holding, and carefully twisted himself around, placing his right hand in the stranger’s.

The man smiled; it was a wonderful sight. His whole being seemed to shine with it. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand just slightly, the action seeming as natural as a simple handshake.

“Greg Lestrade” the stranger said.

“Mycroft Holmes” he replied, squeezing Greg’s hand in turn.

Greg grinned. “Mycu- I might have to get you to write that one down!” Mycroft let out a small laugh, and realised that this was the first genuine smile his face had formed since the day before he met Moriarty.

Both of them just stood there for a moment, hand in hand, smiling at each other, as if this were the most relaxed and normal introduction on the planet. Neither seemed to want to be the first to interrupt the silence, or to release his grip on the other’s hand. It was one of those endless moments, it could mean nothing or it could mean everything. For those few seconds Mycroft felt his entire world were balancing on a scale, waiting for fate to tip him one way or the other.

And tip him it did. As he edged himself around, preparing to allow Greg to assist him onto the correct side of the railing, his stomach lurched, and the metal bar was suddenly gone from beneath his feet. With nothing left to support him, Mycroft felt himself falling towards the icy depths of the water below.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update. When Sherlock series 3 updates before you do then you know it's been too long. But here it is. Next chapter in the workings, more to follow quite soon :)

Mycroft was not accustomed to physical pain, which was why, he assumed, he had such a low tolerance for it at this moment. Gregory still had a hold on his hand when he fell, and it was this hold alone keeping Mycroft from falling to his death. The squeeze of Gregory’s hand made Mycroft’s protest under the pressure. Likewise his shoulder ached and already felt as though it was threatening to disengage from its socket, and his chest hurt where it had hit the wall of the ship.

Above, he could hear Gregory’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. A sudden and overwhelming feeling overtook him; he did not want to die. Whether it was a self-preservation instinct or his desperation had been a moment of madness, he did not know. But he could not die now. Not like this.

“I won’t let go!” He heard Gregory call. “It’s ok! Pull yourself up, I can’t do this alone! Mycroft! I promise you, I will not let go, but I can’t do this alone! Pull yourself up!”

 Mycroft reached out with his free hand and somehow managed to grasp the railing above his head, the same railing he had been standing on only moments before. Gregory pulled at Mycroft’s arm with all his might, and Mycroft himself did his best and, somehow, Mycroft found himself being raised higher, until his feet regained their purchase on the railings, and he could finally scramble back over onto the deck.

Mycroft collapsed to the ground and lay there for a moment on the bare wood floor, feeling the sway of the boat beneath him, before feeling Gregory descend upon him, pulling his jacket open and running his hands over his chest. It took a moment for Mycroft to realise that the third class passenger was attempting to check him for signs of injury, and forced himself to make motions of protest, if only out of propriety. Gregory seemed to realise what he was doing and froze, one hand still on Mycroft’s abdomen, warming him through the fine material of his dress shirt.

Before either of them could say another word, or properly process what had just happened, the marshal came racing around the corner. Everyone froze, and Mycroft assessed the situation from the crewman’s eyes. Rich passenger on the floor showing signs of recent physical exertion. Poor passenger with hands under rich passenger’s jacket. It must look like Gregory was mugging him. Or worse. Mycroft watched the marshal’s eyes dilate and his lips purse and knew that this was indeed the conclusion that he had come to.

“You! Don’t move!” the official cried, pointing at Gregory. Gregory rolled his eyes and stood up, moving a step away from where Mycroft still lay, sapped of energy. Clearly Gregory had dealt with the police before, if his contemptuous manner was anything to go by. The automatic understanding that he could do the opposite to what he was told and not be reprimanded spoke for itself.

The Master at Arms was fetched, the closest thing he ship had to a policeman, and with him appeared Moriarty, Moran, and Colonel Gracie, a pompous little blowhard who demanded constant attention. All had clearly come directly from dinner; none were wearing coats over their dinner jackets, and the colonel was still carrying his snifter of brandy. Moriarty was furious, his anger radiating from him in waves. He ran at Gregory and grabbed handfuls of his shirtfront.

“What were you doing? What made you think you could lay a hand on him, hmm? Look at me, you piece of filth, I asked you a question!”

Some may have taken this reaction as a sign of concern, but Mycroft knew better. Mycroft was Moriarty’s property now, or as good as, so an injury to him was an insult to Moriarty himself. In his pompous mind, nobody but he had the right to harm Mycroft.

“James, enough, it was an accident.” Mycroft asserted, as calmly as his voice would allow.

“An accident?” Moriarty spat.

“Yes. I was leaning over the bar, and I slipped. I was attempting to assess the number of blades on the propellers, you know, efficiency versus vibration on a ship this size, and I lost my footing. Mr Lestrade here was kind enough to pull me back over, almost going overboard himself in the process.”

“Was that the way of it?” the Master at Arms demanded.

Mycroft silently begged Gregory to agree, to not tell them what really happened. If Moriarty knew that Mycroft had tried to escape, the psychological torture would be unendurable. Gregory’s eyes flickered between Moriarty and Mycroft , before holding Mycrofts for a long moment. He nodded.

“That was pretty much it” he told the Master at Arms. Mycroft felt himself smile as his heart swelled. It was more than relief; a small part of him revelled in sharing a secret with this other man.

“Well then, that makes the boy a hero then!” Gracie erupted. “Good for you son, well done! Get him go man; let’s get back to our brandy.”

Gregory was quickly released, and Moriarty made to drag Mycroft back inside, clearly disappointed at having no legitimate excuse to further the misery in his life. Mycroft searched for a reason to look back, to lay eyes on Gregory one last time this night.

Gracie tapped Moriarty on the shoulder and indicated to Mycroft’s saviour. “Perhaps a little something for the boy?” he suggested, rubbing his finger and forefinger together. Moriarty grunted.

“Moran, a twenty should do it” he commanded, not looking back.

Mycroft bristled at this low price on his life. “Twenty pounds for the life of your niece’s fiancée. Irene will be pleased” he growled.

Moriarty froze, and Mycroft tried not to look too pleased with himself. Moriarty’s biggest fear was clearly the idea that once Irene was in possession of her dowry money, she and Mycroft would cast him aside somewhat. Mycroft was, after all, used to living a relatively penniless existence in a rich world while maintaining the required standard. He needed to keep his niece on side, and this piece of information was unlikely to endear her to him.

“Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow?” he said, charm exuding from every pore. “Regale our group with your heroic tale!” The beaming smile did not reach his eyes, which were as cold as ever. Gregory handled the eccentric change in mood without even blinking.

“Sure. Count me in” he said, eyes on Mycroft and Mycroft alone.

Mccroft was torn. As much as he adored the idea of seeing Gregory again, he knew that Moriarty didn’t mean it as a kindness. There was no chance of Gregory owning the appropriate attire so it was highly unlikely that the doormen would even let him in. If this tale reached Irene, he could spin it into the idea he showed Gregory every kindness, but the poor lowly steerage boy rejected his offer and stood them up at dinner. If they did let him in, the first class passengers would look down their nose at him, tripping him at every turn, doing their best to humiliate him. The idea made Mycroft’s stomach turn. He would seek the man out in the morning, he decided. Use the warning as an excuse to speak with him in private.

Mycroft smiled, and, plan formed, allowed himself to be led back to their suite.

“Impressive, really” Moran whispered as they reached the door. “You slip so suddenly, and the young man has chance to remove his jacket and shoes.” The valet’s expression was bland, but his cold eyes betrayed everything. Moran knew. And if Mycroft didn’t tread very carefully, the information would rapidly be used against him.

xXx

 

Mycroft retreated to his room, but even then he did not remain undisturbed for long. Moriary didn’t bother knocking. He was paying for the suite and therefore considered all of the rooms to be his; why would he knock at his own room? Mycroft saw him in the mirror of the vanity but pretended not to, silently continuing to remove his cufflinks.

Moriarty approached and stood just feet from him. Mycroft expected a blow, but instead Moriarty proffered a large black velvet jewel case.

“I had intended to hold off showing you this until the engagement gala, but I thought, tonight, maybe a reminder of why you are here…” his voice trailed off menacingly, and Mycroft opened the box to save himself from responding.

Inside was a necklace. An engagement gift for Irene no doubt. It was huge, the silver chain inlayed with clear sparkling diamonds, and the pendant itself, a malevolent blue stone glittering in the electric light with an infinity of razor sharp inner reflections.

“Is that a-“

“Diomand. Yes. Fifty six carats. It was worn once by Louis the Sixteenth. They call it ‘Le Coeur de la Mer’, ‘The—“

“’The Heart of the Ocean” Mycroft translated.

“It’s for royalty. Irene is royalty. As you could be. If you allow it.”

 The message was clear. One of the stones from the chain would cover Mycroft’s outgoings for a whole year, and a second would clear his debts three times over. Money. Moriarty had money, and money buys power and influence. Mycroft may have the reputation his family name brought, but that could only take him so far. Moriarty was at the top of the food chain, because he could afford the price. Mycroft could inherit the part, if he was willing to play the role, if he gave Moriarty what he wanted without resistance.

Moriarty took the box from Mycroft’s hands and silently left the room, the key clicking in the lock behind him. Mycroft rose and threw himself, still clothed, upon the bed. If he accepted the role, it would simply ensnare him even more deeply in Moriarty’s net. Money can buy power, but it cannot buy happiness. His life would be as cold and flashy as the heavy gem.

Irene’s eyes were blue, he was told. He had almost no doubt that the gem matched the shade almost exactly. But the eyes that haunted Mycroft’s dreams that night were not hers. They were kind and dark, and filled Mycroft with an inexplicable feeling of comfort and warmth and hope.


	5. Chapter 5

**12th April 1912**

Mycroft was not used to so many eyes upon him at once. He felt almost as though he were on a stage. It was true that he had dressed that morning with even more meticulousness than usual, to the extreme of polishing the ebony handle of his umbrella, but even so, the stares it gained him seemed disproportional. Perhaps it was because, as he made his way down to the lower decks, he felt conspicuous, as though he expected every person he passed to stop him, to challenge him and his intended destination.

Third class was stark and dirty compared to the opulence of first class, and was loud and boisterous, lacking the faint twinkle of the orchestra that Mycroft had already become accustomed to. He hesitated in the doorway to what he assumed was the third class social centre, assaulted by the onslaught of stimuli. Mothers nursed babies, children ran between the unvarnished wooden benches yelling in several languages, and being reprimanded in several more. Old men played chess, and girls sat in small groups doing needlepoint and reading dime novels; Mycroft wondered how on earth they could concentrate given the racket.

Three boys ran at the doorway, and Mycroft stepped into the room and to the side and out of their way, as they chased a rat down the hall, trying to hit it with a shoe. And there he was. Directly in Mycroft’s line of sight. Gregory hadn’t seen him yet, as he sat with a young girl drawing funny faces in a sketchbook. The soft easiness of his strokes across the page confirmed the suspicion that this was an artist, and the adult way in which he spoke to the girl insinuated that he had no siblings. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing them to be un-browned by the sun as his face was- work in a hot country then. Mycroft wanted to look forever, to read everything there was to know. Gregory was a source of unending fascination for Mycroft. Why would this man offer to risk his life for a stranger who would not otherwise have given him a second glance? Had it all been just words? Or would Gregory actually have followed him in had he let go? Mycroft intended to find out.

As they had on the outer deck, all eyes slowly turned to Mycroft, some with resentment and others with a sort of awe, and there was a lull in the noise as the opulently dressed man with his embroidered waistcoat and polished black umbrella stole the focus of the room. Gregory, noticing something was amiss, looked up, and their eyes met once more. If the third class man was surprised to find Mycroft there then he did not show it.

Mycroft took a step forwards, feeling the eyes of the room following him, and Gregory rose to greet him.

“Gregory.” The man’s name was the only word Mycroft was able to form at that moment.

“Mr Holmes” Gregory replied, a smile on his lips.

“May I speak to you in private?”

“Sure, if you like. Lead the way.” Gregory nodded  towards the door Mycroft had entered through, and Mycroft followed the indication, glad to be able to make a quick getaway, and even more glad to have Gregory now with him.

The noise in the room behind them suddenly erupted, as if the inhabitants felt that they had to make up for their few moments of quiet.

Gregory laughed. “Don’t mind them, they’re in need of something new to gawp at.”

For some reason, Mycroft did not find this idea comforting. They still acquired curious glances, the mismatched couple ascending from the third class decks to take a walk along B deck.

“Gregory- may I call you Gregory?” Mycroft had been using the man’s first name in his head, but suddenly realised that he barely knew the man; he didn’t want to be presumptuous and make him uncomfortable.

Gregory gave a small laugh, a gruff little sound from the back of his throat. “I haven’t been called ‘Gregory’ in years. Call me Greg, please.”

Mycroft hesitated. “ I should prefer the full form, if you don’t mind. I feel… I feel it would suit you better.”

“Don’t know if you know me well enough to decide that, but whatever makes you happy.” If he was annoyed, Mycroft couldn’t hear it in his voice. “How do you pronounce your first name again?”

“Mycroft.”

“Yeah. That. Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it.” Mycroft’s mind compiled several responses, none of which were appropriate, so he stayed silent. “Anyway,” Gregory continued, “I’m guessing you want to tell me about last night?”

“That was my intention. Forgive me, Gregory, I don’t know quite where to start. It has taken me most of this morning to work up the courage to even attempt to find you.”

“Well, you’re here now.”

“Yes. You see, I wanted to thank you for what you did. Not only for bringing me back around, but also for your… discretion.”

Mycroft leaned against the railing, hanging his umbrella on the top bar, surveying the deck below and the waves that seemed to stretch on forever.

“Don't worry about it,” Gregory said, joining Mycroft at the rail. “Got you out of trouble. Got me out of trouble.”

“Yes.”

A silence passed between them, and for a minute or two they just stood there side by side, looking out to sea.

“Well, is that is?” Gregory asked, glancing around. They were in the first class area, and Gregory’s scruffy outfit was attracting disapproving glances from other passengers.

“I wished to say, that is, I wished to explain… I did not want you to think badly of me. From the outside, my life may seem to be quite pristine, but in reality…” Mycroft turned and looked Gregory in the eye. “I don’t want you thinking I’m some poor pathetic rich heir who threatens the extremes at the first sign of not getting his own way.”

“I didn’t think that.” The response came only a fraction of a second too soon.

“Oh didn’t you,” Mycroft smiled.

“Nah. Toffs off themselves all the time.  Not for the likes of me to think about the reasons.”

“Then I should like you to understand the reasons in this case.”

Gregory nodded, and looked suddenly expectant.

“You see, I am to be married. To a woman I have never met. That is what awaits me in New York.”

“What did you agree to that for?” Gregory asked, bemused.

“She is an heiress, and my brother owes her uncle a great deal of money, amongst other things. The uncle made threats, and we came to this arrangement. You see, the family has everything bar an old name, which I and my brother have. They say that a good name is the only thing one cannot buy; it would appear that they are wrong.”

“Why not make your brother marry her? It’s his debt. Or tell Mr Uncle to shove it, that’s what I’d do.”

Mycroft smiled a tight smile. “I do not doubt it, Gregory. Sherlock, my brother, intended himself for another, and so refused. Moriarty made threats on his life. I had no-one, and so offered myself as a substitute.”

“But he knows you don’t want to be here.” Gregory nodded with understanding.

“He treats me as a commodity. I am a gift for his niece, to be handed over like a necklace. Only my name is of value. I myself am nothing. And I am treated as such.”

“Hang on then, what does the girl think of all this?”

“I assume you are referring to my fiancée? I do not know. I suppose I shall find out when we arrive.”

“If it’s all that bad, just don’t marry her. He can’t make you.”

Mycroft gave Gregory another smile. “Oh, but he can.”

“He can’t be all that.”

“You shall see for yourself tonight, though I assure you that he is.” Mycroft cast his eye around for a change of subject, and his eye landed on the sketchbook in Gregory’s hand; he must have brought it with him when he left the table. How had Mycroft not noticed? He wondered again about the smudge of charcoal on Gregory’s hand- was he an artist, or was this the product of entertaining little girls? They were not typical artist’s hands after all; they were rough and callused, and there were no pigment stains or chemical marks. “May I see those?” Mycroft asked, not waiting for an answer before taking the book.

He sat down on a nearby deckchair and opened the book at a random page, leafing through the pages, becoming steadily more entranced. Instead of the scribbles he had expected, each page showed an expressive little bit of humanity; a sleeping man, a father and daughter at the rail, a couple weeping their goodbyes at the dockside. Each of the faces was luminous and alive, each drawing its own little celebration of the human condition. Mycroft found that he was able to read facts about the lives of the subjects just from the images on the paper. That Gregory had seen this detail and committed it to memory and then to paper was truly exquisite.

“These are actually quite good” Mycroft aired, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah well. Didn’t think much of ‘em in Paris.” Gregory replied, leaning back on the railing to watch Mycroft’s progression through the book.

“You took them to Paris? You were trained there?”

“Nah. Trained myself. Worked as a sketch artist for the London police, got a bit full of myself, crossed the channel and got taken down a peg or two.”

“A sketch artist? What precisely does that entail?”

“Witness described the perp to me, I draw em, coppers have a picture for the wanted posters.”

“How noble.”

“Noble? Right. If that’s what you call it.”

Mycroft was about to comment on the poorer man’s impertinence, but the turn of the page made him stop. He had stumbled on a series of nudes, and was transfixed by the languid beauty on the page. They were soulful and as expressive as the other pieces, making them almost uncomfortably intimate.

“These were drawn from life?” Mycroft coughed, his breath sticking in his throat. He felt winded, as if some small part of him had been shattered.

“That’s the great thing about Paree, loads of girls willing to take their clothes off. I should take you there some time.”

Mycroft struggled not to blush, and refrained from comment. He studied one drawing in particular, the girl posed half in sunlight, half in shadow. Her hands lay at her chin, one furled and one open like a flower, languid and graceful.

“You liked this girl. You used her several times.”

“She had lovely hands.”

“I think you must have had a love affair with her,” Mycroft taunted, trying to keep the accusation light.

“No, Christ, no. Just her hands. She was, well, not my division.”

Mycroft did not know how to interpret this comment, and so moved past it. “You have a gift, Gregory. You see people. You truly see them.”

“I see you.”

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat once more. He was used to seeing, but not being seen. His brother had the gift, but was blind to anything that did not interest him, and Mycroft was certainly not in that category. In Mycroft’s world, he was the observer, and faded into the background of the lives of others, never receiving what he was able to give. “And?” he breathed.

Gregory stared at him, considering. Mycroft felt the intensity of his gaze, looking not just at him, but inside of him, seeing through to his very core. He allowed it, tried his best to remain open, to allow himself to be read like he read others.

“You wouldn’t have jumped” Gregory whispered eventually.

Mycroft only wished that he himself could be so certain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I know there has been SO MUCH WAITING for this that there's little chance of it being worth that huge long wait, but I am already on with chapter 7 and do not intend to drop this again. 
> 
> Many many thanks to my lovely beta for error correcting, style improving, generally smoothing over, and poking me gently with a pen until I picked it up again. And also for making Mrs Turner a thing, because I don't know how I missed that opportunity but she saw it and it was too good to not run with XD

They had done more than a dozen circuits of the deck by the time the little man blew the bugle to signal that it was almost time for dinner. Conversation had petered off to a comfortable silence, but neither one of them seemed to want to be the one to call the walk to a close. They had discussed their lives, their upbringings, Mycroft’s brother and Gregory’s travels for his art and work. They had even made some hypothetical travel plans of their own, laughing and joking over where they would go and what they would do if they ever got the chance.

It wasn’t until Mrs Hudson rounded on them on the port side of the boat deck that reality burst the little bubble of timeless tranquillity that they had created.

“There you are, boys. People will be looking for you soon. We don’t want to be late for dinner, now do we? For a start Mr Moriarty would have a fit.” Mrs Hudson gave Mycroft a playful nudge and a barely perceptible wink, as though causing Moriarty to have such a fit was the most enormously fun thing that she could possibly think of. She looked at Gregory now, and beamed. “I take it you’re our honoured guest, dear? Pleasure to meet you.”

“And you ma’am. Greg Lestrade.”

“Martha Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson offered her hand for Greg to shake, and Mycroft smiled at this great lady, marking this lowly poor man as an equal before any witness who cared to walk past them. Greg however, instead of shaking her hand, bowed to her and brushed his lips across her knuckles in the barest hint of a kiss. Mrs Hudson blushed and Mycroft didn’t even try and hide his glee.

“Saw that on a Nickelodeon once, always wanted to give it a try,” Greg explained, and Mycroft and Mrs Hudson stifled their giggles.

“Enough flattery, Mr Lestrade,” Mrs Hudson demanded, clearly loving the attention. Mycroft suspected that it was a long time since a man had shown her such a gesture. “Now, we should all be heading down to change.”

Gregory hesitated at this, perceptibly enough for even the  lady to notice.

“You dear, are about to go into the snake pit. What exactly were you planning to wear?”

 Gregory indicated nervously at the clothes he was wearing. Mycroft assessed the outfit in the eyes of those he would later be dining with; a worn but fairly clean brown shirt, patched trousers that were too big, held up by second-hand leather braces, and hand-me-down brown boots that looked like they had holes in the soles. Not at all suitable for a first class dinner. Mycroft himself planned to wear a swallow-tailed evening jacket and French cuffs. The staff wouldn’t let Gregory within six feet of the dining room door.

“You could-“

“Borrow from you dear? No, no, that’d mean going into your cabin, straight into the lion’s den, if you’ll pardon my saying so. No, I should be able to sort you something.”

“You?” Mycroft had a sudden flash of an image in his mind of Gregory in a corset, and almost had to physically shake his head to dislodge it.

“I shopped for some things for Mr Hudson in Italy. I never quite know what he gets up to when I’m away, nor am I sure I want to for that matter, so these days I buy everything in three or more sizes so that at least one will fit without too much re-tailoring. I should have something suitable that’ll fit you. Come along Mr Lestrade.”

Mycroft attempted to protest, but Mrs Hudson took Gregory by the arm, leading him away towards her cabin. Gregory turned and gave Mycroft a helpless little wave accompanied by a cheeky grin.

“I shall see you both at dinner” Mycroft called out, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity over the situation.

“Go and dress, Mr Holmes!” Mrs Hudson called back, leaving Mycroft with nothing more than a mischievous grin to stem the flood of excitement and dread for the coming evening as she and Gregory vanished around the corner.

**\----------**

Mycroft stood nervously on the upper landing of A-Deck, surveying the room around him and trying not to wonder what Gregory would make of its opulent splendour; the enormous glass dome with its glittering crystal chandelier hanging from its centre, the sweeping architectural marvel of the great staircase that spanned 6 stories, the varnished mahogany statues that grew seamlessly from the panelled walls. What would he make of the ladies with their floor length dresses elaborate hairstyles and abundant jewellery, in the arms of gentlemen in evening suits and mirror-shined shoes with one arm at the small of their back. After his visit to the third class quarter Mycroft was ashamed of himself, and of the people around him for living in this way, for reviling in having so much when others had so little. Gregory would likely be horrified by it all and would never wish to speak to him again.

He caught sight of Mrs Hudson being escorted in, dressed in purple silk and black lace, the man on her arm nodding to the doorman with just the right amount of distain. As Mycroft stepped forward to greet her, apprehension tying a knot in his stomach, he noticed the other man give an equally disdainful look to the grand carved clock, and realised with a start that the man was Gregory. Mycroft had hardly recognised him. His hair was combed and oiled, he was impeccably dressed, and his new found posture made him an inch taller. The transformation was hypnotising. His slim body, which before had seemed underfed, now looked toned and fit. His cheeks and chin now looked chiselled and classically handsome, making Mycroft wonder how he had possibly not noticed them before. And yet despite the differences, he still had the same twinkle in his eyes, drawing Mycroft in and holing him there, making him unable and unwilling to look away.

“Gregory” he found himself exclaiming, suddenly at a loss for anything else to say.  “I- Mrs Hudson you have done a wonderful job, he looks simply splendid.”

“Thank you Mr Holmes. See, didn’t I tell you Greg, there’s nothing to it.” Mrs Hudson smiled up at Gregory like a proud mother.

“Dress like an undertaker and keep your nose in the air” Gregory grinned back at her, before glancing at Mycroft with a playful glint in his eye that Mycroft didn’t quite know how to interpret.

“Exactly. Now remember, the only thing these types respect is money, so just act like you’ve got it and you’re in the club. Now if you two boys can excuse me, I can see the Countess Turner over there, from the cabin next door to mine, and should like to go and speak to her”. Mrs Hudson bustled off in the direction of a tight cluster of women in the far corner, leaving Mycroft and Gregory stood alone.

“So, how about the grand tour?” Gregory asked, and Mycroft grinned.

“You don’t really want to sit and listen to talk of naval architecture, I assure you.  In fact, if the subject should arise at dinner you must assure me that you’ll do your best to help me to subvert it as efficiently as possible.”

“Hey, for all you know naval architecture might be my passionate area of expertise” Gregory grumbled.

“Is it?”

“Ah, no, I’ll happily avoid it with you.” The two men grinned at each other. Mycroft hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol yet but somehow he felt wonderfully deliriously drunk.

Mycroft led the way down a second staircase towards the dining room, filled with more elaborately clothed people, and an orchestra playing quietly in the far corner. Moriarty was stood nearby in a half-hearted conversation with Colonel Gracie, half concealed by a pillar, obviously waiting for them.  Mycroft smiled. Moriarty had clearly not recognised Gregory in his finery.

“Ready for introductions?” he asked Gregory, inclining his head towards where Moriarty stood.

Gregory nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Mycroft led the way over to the pillar, holding his head as high as he could, straightening his spine, and took a deep breath.

“Colonel Gracie,” he said, making firm eye contact to avoid looking at Moriarty yet, “pleasure to see you sir, will you be joining our table for dinner?”

“Mr Holmes, glad to see you looking bett-“

“Who’s this?” Moriarty interrupted, indicating towards Gregory.

Mycroft smiled in the most patronising way that he dared. “James, surely you remember Mr Lestrade?”

Moriarty had been caught off guard, a humiliating thing for him. He quickly looked Gregory up and down. “Lestrade! Didn’t recognise you. Amazing, really, you could almost pass for a gentleman. Amazing what a bit of soap and water can do.”

Moriarty might have said more, but at that moment the dining room doors were opened and people began filing inside to take their seats in an organised fashion that only rich people seem to manage. Mrs Hudson appeared at Gregory’s side and asked him to escort her in to dinner, which he did, and the Colonel headed off to offer his arm to his wife, leafing Moriarty and Mycroft alone.

“I might have decided to punish you for this, but I’m impressed. I might even allow you to see the Hudson woman after we reach shore, I’ve heard stories about her husband that make him sound like a valuable kind of contact.”

Mycroft smiled for a triumphant moment until the meaning of Moriarty’s words fully reached him. The journey to America would only take a few more days, and after they reached the shore, Mycroft and Gregory were unlikely to see each other again. But Mycroft was too happy in this moment to think about it. This night had just begun and so far it was going well. He didn’t yet know how, and for now the how didn’t matter, but he was determined that Moriarty was going to be proven wrong. Mycroft and Gregory’s story would not end upon the Titanic, Mycroft would make sure of it.


	7. Chapter 7

As they entered the swirling throng in the dining room, Mrs Hudson vanished off once more to greet and gossip with acquaintances, leaving Gregory and Mycroft free to talk once more. Mycroft leaned in close, close enough to smell the scent of Gregory’s skin under the aftershave that must have belonged to Mr Hudson.  
Mycroft pointed out a few notable people, the ones that everyone else in the room would know on sight.  
“There's the Countess Rothes. And that's John Jacob Astor... the richest man on the ship. His little wife there, Madeleine, is my age and in a delicate condition. See how she's trying to hide it? That’s going to be quite the scandal when it comes out… and over there, that's Sir Cosmo and Lucile, Lady Duff-Gordon. She designs naughty lingerie, among her many talents. Very popular with the royals. And that's Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress, Madame Aubert. Mrs Guggenheim is at home with the children, of course…”

“How do you know all this stuff?” Gregory asked, seemingly bemused.

“I look. I observe. You see it too, I know you do. I saw it in your drawings. I could read the people from the page alone.”

They took their seats at their table, alongside the Astors.

“JJ, Madeline, this is Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft said, smiling.

JJ shook Gregory’s hand. “Good to meet you. Are you related to the Lestrades in Nottingham, by any chance?” he asked, the image of the well-connected business man who knew everyone worth knowing.

“My family are mostly from Bristol, actually” Gregory said with a smile, and JJ Astor smiled and nodded as though this meant something to him.

Other people were joining them as well, Mrs Hudson and her friend Countess Turner, Ismay and Andrews, and two sisters by the name of Bonnell, who appeared to have earned their seat at the table by being hugely interested and amused by every word issued from Mr Ismay’s mouth.

Mycroft sat and observed the scene before him as it unfolded. Gregory must have been nervous, but he never faltered. They assumed he was one of them; a young captain of industry perhaps- new money, obviously, but still a member of the club. He smiled and greeted these people with perfect manners, despite the fact that he must have known in other circumstances they would never have reduced themselves to sparing him a second glance if they passed him in the street.

But of course, Moriarty could not allow the relaxed atmosphere to continue- he would not be content until everyone seated at the table disliked Gregory as much as he did.

“Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr Lestrade. I hear they’re quite good on this ship.” His voice carried over the small talk and silenced even Mrs Hudson.

“The best I’ve seen” Gregory replied, not missing a beat. “Hardly any rats.” A round of laughter did a circuit of the table, and Mycroft could intonate the theories forming in their minds- perhaps Gregory had carried out an inspection of the conditions, in much the same way as Mr Rowndtree and Mr Booth.

“Mr Lestrade is joining us tonight from third class” Moriarty explained to Andrews, who already knew this, allowing his words to cause exchanged whispers in other parts of the table. Many now eyed Gregory with suspicion, and they themselves seemed to feel terribly liberal and dangerous.

“What is Moriarty trying to prove, bringing this… bohemian up here?” Guggenheim muttered to Madam Aubert.

Mycroft floundered, trying to work out how to rectify the situation, but this was not one of the many scenarios that he had played out in his head; he had not imagined that Moriarty would throw them head long into the depths and out Gregory’s status straight off the bat, he had rather imagined that he would allow him to flounder in the myriad unknowns of etiquette and social policy which between them Mycroft and Mrs Hudson may have been able to subvert.

“Mr Lestrade is quite a fine artist” Mycroft countered, “He was kind enough to show me some of his work today.” Gregory caught Mycroft’s eye at this and Mycroft had to take a sip of champagne to halt his laughter.

“Mr Holmes and I differ in our opinions of what constitutes ‘fine art’. He insisted upon purchasing some mud puddles that they’re calling ‘cubism’, monstrosities in my opinion, a child could have painted them.”

“You’re wrong” Mycroft blurted out before he could stop himself, and felt the heat of Moriarty’s glare, knowing he would pay for this comment later. “They’re fascinating, like a dream, truth with no logic, there’s one in particular by a Spaniard named Picasso-“

“He’ll never amount to a thing, trust me.” Moriarty interrupted. “At least they were cheap.” The table laughed again, more genuinely this time. “This is of course, not to impugn upon your work, Mr Lestrade, which I’m sure is very good.”

“Where exactly do you live, Mr Lestrade?” Countess Turner asked.

“Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that I’m on God’s good humour.”

“And how is it that you have the means to travel?”

“I work my way from place to place, sell my drawings, street portraits, that sort of thing. I won my ticket aboard Titanic in a hand of poker.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows and Gregory caught his eye and grinned at him. “A very lucky hand.”

“All life is a game of luck!” Ismay declared, and the Bonnell sisters giggled and raised their glasses as if to toast his words, and seemed disappointed when everyone else did not join them.

Moriarty scowled. “A real man makes his own luck” he countered.

“And, you find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?” One of the Bonnell sisters asked, earning herself a deathly glare from Mrs Hudson.

“Well, yes ma’am I do. I have everything I need right here; the clothes on my back and a few blank sheets of paper. I like not knowing what’s going to happen or where I might end up. A few days ago I slept under a bridge, and now here I am on the grandest ship on the world, sipping champagne with you fine people.” A few people laughed and took unconscious sips of their drinks. Moriarty rolled his eyes and cast around in his pockets for his cigarettes. “Way I see it, life’s a gift and I don’t intend to waste it. You never know what hand you might get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes.” Moriarty, having found his cigarettes seemed at a loss to find his lighter. Gregory took a box of matches from his top pocket and tossed them across the table to him. “Here you go Jim. You have to make each day count.”

The table descended into a thoughtful quiet as they digested these words. Moriarty pointedly refused to use Gregory’s matches to light his cigarette, but nobody was paying him any attention.

“Well said Greg” Mrs Hudson said, breaking the silence.

“Hear hear!” Astor declared, and, with his approval, others began to nod in agreement, beaming at Gregory and each other in a self-satisfied sort of way.

Mycroft raised his glass in a toast “To making it count!” Gregory and Moriarty stared at him in disbelief, but everyone else reached for their glasses.

“To making it count!” they all coursed, and some raised their glasses or nodded to Gregory before taking their obligatory sip. Gregory acknowledged them with a nod and took a sip of his champagne as well, but Moriarty pushed his glass away, as though the £20-per-glass champagne had somehow become distasteful to him.

The dinner continued, and Mycroft began to forget that this night was awkward and scary. It became comfortable, or as close to comfortable as these things can be. There was an ease to it, the atmosphere seemed to relax itself around them. Moriarty’s barbs didn’t seem as sharp, Ismay didn’t seem quite as conceited, and Mycroft and Gregory were as respected and equal to all others seated around them, their status temporarily elevated.

After the third course a conversation on the other side of the table made its way around to them, “…knows every rivet in her, don’t you Thomas?” Ismay called to his friend.

“All three million of them” Andrews replied, only half joking.

“His blood and soul are in this ship. She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God she belongs to Thomas Andrews.”

“Your ship is a wonder, Mr Andrews, truly.” Mycroft told him, and Andrews thanked him, embarrassment colouring his cheeks.

Later, Mrs Hudson had the whole table in hysterics with a story in which she hid a sum of money in the stove and her clueless husband, in his search for the bank notes, lit the stove and set the money alight.

Desert was served, and a waiter came around with cigars in a humidor on a wheeled cart. The men started clipping ends and lighting up, and Mycroft felt his stomach sink as he recognised this as a sign that their evening was at a close, and the unwelcome bursting of his happy bubble loomed, welcoming back in the unfriendly rest of the world and the realities of his situation.

“Next it’ll be brandies in the smoking room” he muttered to Gregory. As if on cue, Ismay rose to his feet.

“Join me for a brandy Gentlemen?”

Gregory gave Mycroft a quizzical look; should they get up and join them?

“They retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe.” Mycroft said, his voice low enough that only Gregory could hear him.

“Ladies, thank you for the pleasure of your company” Ismay said, kissing the hands of each of the Bonnell sisters.

“Joining us Lestrade?” Moriarty asked as he passed him. Gregory hesitated. “Well you don’t want to stay out here with the women do you? Mycroft doesn’t usually come in; all politics and business, not his sort of thing” His message was clear. Mycroft’s opinions were not of value and he was therefore not invited. Andrews gave him a reproachful look, which Moriarty deftly ignored.

“No thanks, I should head back. Time for my coach to turn back into a pumpkin.”

Moriarty grinned and shook his hand. “Yes well.” He looked Gregory up and down in a predatory way that made Mycroft’s flesh crawl. “Good of you to come.”

Gregory kissed Mrs Hudson’s hand and shook hands with some of the retreating gentlemen before turning back to Mycroft.

“Must you go?” Mycroft asked, hopefully.

“Time for me to go row with the other slaves” he grinned, but Mycroft did not find him amusing. Gregory shook his hand and said his goodbyes, but Mycroft was too distracted by the slip of paper that was slipped into his hand to respond. As Gregory retreated, Mycroft unravelled it as discreetly as his racing heart would allow.

_Make it count. Meet me at the clock._

Mycroft could barely contain his joy. The night, the bubble, his time with this man, it wasn’t over. He said his goodbyes to the ladies, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s knowing smile, and walked, as calmly as he could manage, through the dining room towards the stairs.

It was an image he would see in his dreams for many years. He crossed the foyer, and Gregory came into sight on the landing of the great staircase, his back to Mycroft, hands in his pockets, watching the magnificent carved clock as it chimed midnight. Mycroft stood at the bottom of the stairs, and took a steadying breath, trying to prepare himself for the unknown plans that Gregory had in store for him. As he climbed the sweeping staircase, Gregory turned and smiled, and the tightness in Mycroft’s stomach loosened. It would be all right. He would be all right. Nothing bad could happen to him with Gregory at his side. His stance said he had everything under control. His smile said he was happy to take care of everything. His words said that this night could only get better.

“Want to go to a real party?”


	8. Chapter 8

The third class general room was crowded and alive with music and laughter and raucous carrying on. An ad hoc band was gathered near the upright piano in one corner of the room, honking out lively stomping music on fiddle, accordion and tambourine. People of all ages were dancing, drinking beer, smoking, laughing and brawling. Mycroft struggled to take it all in; the sheer number of people, the noise and the smell, the texture of the air. He seated himself at a table, where Gregory served him a pint of stout ale before removing his borrowed jacket and going off to dance with the young girl he had been drawing with when Mycroft had seen him- was that really just this morning?

A third class man approached Mycroft’s table and gestured towards the empty seat.

“Is this chair taken?” he asked in Czech, preparing himself to have to repeat his words, not expecting to be understood.

“My friend will be joining me, but he’s busy at the moment” Mycroft replied in the same language, raising his voice over the din. The Czech man’s eyebrow rose just a fraction of an inch, and he joined Mycroft at his table.

“You are not lost then?” he asked, nodding towards Gregory, who was obviously at ease in this environment, fitting in despite his fine clothes in a way that Mycroft never could.

“I certainly am” he replied, and the Czech man laughed. He stood, slapped Mycroft’s shoulder, and walked away, taking the chair with him.

The song ended, and the crowd burst into raucous handclapping. There was a pause, the passing of instruments to other people, and a new song began to play, different this time. The Czech man and his friend jumped to their feet and started dancing, spinning each other round, linked at the elbow. Several other pockets of dancers followed suit.

Gregory approached the table, and grasped Mycroft’s arm.

“I’m gonna dance with him now, ok?” he said, addressing the little girl, who frowned. Mycroft could understand her feelings well; if he had Gregory as his own he would be loath to let him go too. “Don’t worry Cora, you’re still my best girl.” The girl brightened and scampered back off to her mother.

Gregory pulled Mycroft to his feet and started to pull him out into the dancing, but Mycroft stopped him. “I can’t do this” he said, barely loud enough for Gregory to hear him. He was not in his element here. Nothing about this situation was in his comfort zone.

“Sure you can.” Gregory said, linking their arms like the other pairs around them. The contact was electrifying and it stopped Mycroft’s train of thoughts, his carefully sculpted list of reasons why this was a bad idea.

“I don’t know the steps!” he blurted out.

“Neither do I. Just move with me. Don’t think.”

Accepting no more arguments, Gregory led them further into the crowd and they tried to follow what others were doing around them It was awkward at first, but they started to get into it, spinning faster and faster as the music sped up. Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh, and Gregory was laughing too, his face showing outwardly all of the joy that Mycoft felt inside.

The song ended in a rush and Mycroft practically fell over. Gregory caught him and held him steady, one hand on his shoulder, the other at the small of his back. Mycroft stumbled and found his shoulder resting against a supporting column, Gregory no longer supporting his weight but his arms still round him, their legs tangled together and their faces less than a foot apart. Mycroft’s heart was in his mouth. What would it feel like, he found himself thinking, if Gregory were to kiss him?

With a start, as though he could read Mycroft’s mind, Gregory untangled his limbs from Mycroft and stepped away, brushing himself down and avoiding Mycroft’s eye. A friend of Gregory’s started shouting to them from across the room, and both men wandered over to him gratefully, weaving their way through the dancers as another song started.

Gregory’s friend handed them both pints of stout ale as the approached and Gregory slapped the man’s shoulder. “Mycroft, this is Fabrizio” Gregory said. “He’s the one who set up that perfect game of poker I was telling you about.” Fabrizio laughed a loud cheeky laugh and took a mouthful of his ale.

“Piacere di conoscerla Fabrizio” Mycroft said, the Italian greeting falling from his lips without thought. Fabrizio reddened and Mycroft regretted his use of the formal verb conjugation. Formality didn’t seem to have any place down here. There were manners, certainly, but everything flowed with a free informality, strangers becoming friends in a matter of moments with a wave and a grin and the sharing of drink.

Fabrizio, Mycroft noted, was staring with increased frequency at a pretty german girl on the other side of the room.

“Friend of yours?” Mycroft asked him, in English.

“Helga.” Fabrizio sighed. “She not dance, she not understand when I talk, she not even accept my drink!” he lamented, slopping his beer down his front.

Mycroft considered the girl carefully for a moment. “Try schnapps instead of beer” he advised.

“Schnapps?” Fabrizio looked at Gregory who grinned at him. “Okay, I find some schnapps!” Fabrizio ducked his way away from them in search of the liquor, and further conversation was halted by the breaking out of a brawl at the next table. It appeared that there had been an arm wrestle and some allegations of cheating had dissolved the match.

Mycroft pushed his way forwards and stood over the two men. “May I be permitted a game?” he asked. The two brawling men stopped fighting and looked Mycroft up and down. United in their opinions of him they grinned at him and righted the table they had knocked over.

“Sure!” one of them said. He was a few inches taller than Mycroft, and as a farm labourer had clearly defined arm muscled and a bulging chest. His friend, a factory worker with a urinary tract infection grinned nastily and sat down, putting his elbow on the centre of the table.

“Not sure this is a good idea” Gregory muttered, eying the bigger man, but Mycroft was already removing his jacket. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I am engaging this fine gentleman in an arm wrestle” Mycroft answered, sitting down opposite the factory worker, grimacing at the dirty state of his hand.

Several people stopped by to watch, and Mycroft set his elbow and settled his grip into his opponent’s hand. “If you would call it?” Mycroft said to the farm labourer. The man sneered, but raised his arm in readiness.

Even Mycroft was rather impressed with how it turned out. No sooner had the farm labourer lowered his arm to signal they go, then Mycroft had the factory worker’s hand pinned to the table. A cheer burst through the room and Mycroft stood up, and turned to the stunned farmer. “Yes, I’d say if he claimed he beat you then e was almost certainly cheating somehow.” He turned to his opponent and offered his hand to shake, but the man ignored it. Nonplussed, Mycroft reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for a handkerchief and began thoroughly wiping his hands. “If you want that infection to go away, the first step would be more regular hand washing.”

Mycroft walked away and returned to an ecstatic Gregory, who was stood by a celebrating Fabrizio, who now had his arm around a grinning Helga. Several people shook his hand and clapped him on the back on the way over, and Mycroft knew beyond doubt that his actions had won him the respect of the room.

“How in Hell did you do that?” Gregory demanded.

“It was quite a travesty that Herbert Barrett retired in his match against Wilder last year. It would have been nice to have an Englishman win at Wimbledon.” Mycroft replied conversationally, as though he had not been the cause of the doubling of the ruckus around them.

“Wimbledon? You managed to do that through playing tennis?” Gregory asked, aghast. Mycroft just smiled and sipped at the schnapps that Fabrizio offered him.

A kind of Irish Jig was playing, and a train of people were winding across the room, hand in hand, gaining more people on to the end as they passed. Fabrizio took Helga’s hand and added them on the end, and Helga took Mycroft’s hand and pulled him along as well. Not to be left behind, Gregory took Mycroft’s other hand, and they were pulled and jolted across the room, shouting and laughing and dancing. The song ended and, expecting the dance to stop with it, Mycroft slowed down. Others in the train appeared to have other ideas, however, and his attempts to stop them somehow resulted in Mycroft and Gregory ending up on the floor.

After a quick assessment finding that both he and Gregory were unharmed (mostly anyway; Mycroft surmised that he would probably have a wonderful bruise on his left hip come morning) Mycroft lay back on the sticky floor and laughed, more than he could ever remember laughing in his life. Gregory sat and stared at him, grinning.

“Maybe we should take you out to get some fresh air. I think you might be drunk.”

Mycroft tried to disagree, but the fact that it took him another minute to stop laughing convinced him that Gregory was right. He allowed Gregory to help him to his feet and, when both of them had retrieved and put on their jackets, they nudged their way round the outskirts of the room, up the stairs and out onto the deck.

The stars blazed overhead, brighter and clearer than Mycroft had ever seen them. They walked along by a row of lifeboats, still giddy, and Mycroft stumbled slightly, falling over his own feet, making them both laugh again. They had reached the steps that led to the first class deck, but neither of them wanted to be the one to suggest that Mycroft ascend them and call an end to the night. Instead they leaned against the railing at the side of the deck, looking over at the sea and the stars.

Mycroft looked out at the horizon. “Isn’t it magnificent? So vast and endless…”

Gregory joined him at the rail. Their hands were so close they were just about touching. It was the slightest touch imaginable, but all Mycroft could feel was that square inch of skin where their fingers nudged each other. It wasn’t new, of course, their hands and arms ha touched all night as they danced and held each other up and led each other around the room, but out here, in the open air, with the faint tinkle of the orchestra being blown across them on the wind from the first class rooms upstairs, here it felt so much more intimate and meaningful.

“Look!” Gregory said suddenly, pointing above them at the sky. Mycroft turned to look, and there above them was a shooting star. It was beautiful, bright as a candle, and with a train that seemed to split the sky in two. “My old dad used to say that a shooting star was a soul going up to heaven.”

“I like that.” Mycroft said, tilting his head back to watch the star’s progress across the sky. “Aren’t we supposed to wish on it?”

“What would you wish for?” Gregory asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.

Mycroft turned back towards Gregory and found their faces impossibly close together. It would be so easy for one of them to lean forwards, to close the few inches that separated them, and for a few seconds Mycroft thought that Gregory might just be thinking the same thing.

But that was impossible.

Mycroft leaned back. “Something I can’t have” he answered. “Good night, Gregory. And thank you.”

Without giving Gregory time to respond, he hurried up the steps and out of sight, leaving Gregory behind. Of course, there was nothing to stop Gregory from following him, and, in his borrowed finery, nobody would stop him or question him, but he did not.

Walking along the halls in the direction of his room, Mycroft wondered to himself what on earth he had been thinking. He belonged to Moriarty. He couldn’t swan around and make his own decisions about what he did and who he spent time with, not without consequences.

And as for kissing Gregory… Mycroft’s blood seemed to tingle at the very thought. He really must be drunk. He reached his room, slipped inside, and pitched himself head first onto his bed. Gregory was just being friendly, he reminded himself. They were connected in that Gregory had saved Mycroft from suicide, and Gregory had agreed to keep that a secret. Really, that Gregory was friendly was a blessing; it meant it was unlikely that Gregory would use the information as blackmail material further down the line.

No, kissing Gregory was out of the question, and Gregory wanting to kiss him back was even more so. Not to mention illegal, and immoral and many other things besides.

Even so, had he wished on that star, Mycroft would have wished for one consequence-free kiss from Gregory. Mycroft wondered what it would be like. His hands, he knew, would be soft and sure, and his lips firm, his stubble a gentle rasp against his chin and cheeks…

For the second night in a row, Mycroft fell asleep fully clothed on top of his bed sheets.


	9. Chapter 9

**13th April 1912**

When Mycroft woke, the day was clear and bright. Sunlight poured in through the window; he had of course neglected to close the curtains last night. He washed and dressed, and joined Moriarty on their promenade deck for breakfast. Moriarty looked like he too was a little worse for wear after the previous night; he had red blotches across his cheeks and he was still wearing his bedroom slippers. 

The maid served coffee and was sent away for orange juice as well. 

“I thought you might join us last night, for one game of cards at least” Moriarty barked once they were alone, sipping his coffee.

“I was tired.” Mycroft said neutrally. 

“Yes,” Moriarty said bitterly. “Your exertions below decks were no doubt exhausting.”

Mycroft stiffened, his heart beating a little faster. Thank heavens, he though, the kiss didn’t happen. Had that information reached Moriarty’s ears then Mycroft had no doubt that both he and Gregory would have been found dead in their beds this morning.

“You had that undertaker of a manservant follow me, how typical.” Mycroft put his coffee cup back on the table, allowing it to clink loudly to show his displeasure in a way that he himself daren’t. 

“You will never behave like that again, Holmes. Do you understand me?”

It wasn’t a threat as such, but it didn’t need to be. Mycroft understood quite well the implication in Moriarty’s words. 

“I am not one of your lieutenants, I am not at your command.” Mycroft answered calmly. “I am soon to be your nephew, your family-“

Moriarty exploded, sweeping the breakfast china off the table and then knocking the table on its side. He stepped forward and placed his hands on the arms of Mycroft’s chair, effectively trapping him in place. He was as close to him as Gregory had been the night before, close enough for Mycroft to smell the bitter coffee odour on his breath. 

“Yes! You will be my family! And as a member of my family you shall show me the proper respect! You will not see that man again, I forbid it. Don’t forget, Holmes, I am saving you from ruin. And as such I will not allow you to make a fool out of me. Is this in any way unclear?”

“No” Mycroft gasped. Moriarty pushed himself upright again and stalked off, back inside. 

Mycroft took a deep breath in and realised that he had not dared to breathe throughout Moriarty’s speech. The air caught in his throat, coming out of his mouth in shaky gasps. He felt dizzy and sick and his limbs were trembling. The maid appeared at the door carrying a jug of orange juice and Mycroft wondered how long she had been there and how much she had seen. 

He jumped to his feet as the maid hurried over, and attempted to compose himself.

“I’m so sorry, we had… an accident” even to his own ears his words sounded empty and verging on hysterical. He bent down and attempted to start clearing up the mess Moriarty had made. The maid hurried over and knelt down beside him.

“It’s all right, sir” she murmured, picking up the broken piece of plate he reached for.

“Let me help you” Mycroft squeaked.

The maid caught Mycoft’s wrist, and he turned to look at her. “It’s all right, sir” she repeated. Looking into her eyes, there was no doubt on earth that she had seen and heard practically everything. Her face was filled with sympathy; she had witnessed episodes like this one before. 

Mycroft sat on the floor and took a few deep shuddering breaths, trying to compose himself. Moriarty was not going to let this go. He would be punished for daring to deviate from the permitted, and he just hoped that Gregory would be spared. He was trapped in this life, he had to remember that. He was not his own self any more, and furthermore he had volunteered for this. He was not allowed to rebel, and he was not allowed to be upset that he could not rebel. He had, quite literally, asked for this life. Sherlock had chosen death, but he had chosen this life. 

Moran entered the room, his footsteps near silent. He cleared his throat and looked at the maid, who took the hint. She gave Mycroft’s wrist a quick squeeze and removed herself from the room carrying a stack of broken china.

“Mr Moriarty has informed me of your unfortunate illness, sir.” Moran announced.

Mycroft picked himself up off the floor and brushed down his trousers. “Illness?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, your illness. He said you are so ill that you will be remaining in your room all day, and I should turn away any visitors who should call for you.”

The cogs clicked into place. “I’m confined to quarters?”

“Too ill to leave your bed, sir.” 

If the words weren’t clear enough, the valet pulled a gun from the waistband of his trousers. He didn’t point it at Mycroft, or indeed in any direction in particular, but its visible presence made the air feel thicker. Mycroft took the hint, and took himself off to his room.

He composed letter to Sherlock that he would never send; he didn’t have a current address for him (if he had any sense he would have left Baker Street by now), and even if he did he would never leave an addressed envelope anywhere that there was a possibility that Moriarty or anyone working for him might see it. 

But before he had reached the end of the letter, there was a pounding on the cabin door as though someone was trying to knock it down. Moran’s footsteps raced along the corridor and the pounding stopped. Mycroft went to his bedroom door and pressed his ear against it, hoping to discover who the visitor was without being discovered himself. He needn’t have gone to any trouble; the visitor wanted to be discovered. 

“…out of my way, and don’t you go pointing that thing at me, do you not know better than to point a gun at a lady?”

Moran’s reply was too muffled through the door, but Mrs Hudson’s voice carried perfectly.

“Oh well if he’s that ill then I must see him.”

More muffled protests from Moran, all of which were ignored by Mrs Hudson, whose voice grew louder still as she pushed past the manservant and took herself off to Mycroft’s room. Mycroft backed away from the door 

“I used to do some nursing, you know, I’m sure I can see him right. This room here is it? Lovely.” There was a knock at the bedroom door. “Coo-ee, Mr Holmes are you awake?” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Hudson opened the door, let herself in and closed it behind her, right in Moran’s horrified face. 

“You ought to be careful, Mrs Hudson, visiting hours don’t start until 2pm” Mycroft said, as calmly as he could, hiding as much of his joy as he could. 

“Well then, we’d better get you out of here before that clown out there alerts the ward sister.”

Mycroft grinned, and, feeling like a naughty school boy, collected his jacket from the wardrobe and headed for the door.

There was no sign of Moran. It wasn’t clear whether he had already gone to inform Moriarty of the issue or if he was hiding in his room, gathering further information and sulking, but Mycroft wasn’t interested in finding out the answer, and despite her gutsy words it seemed that Mrs Hudson was as keen to avoid being on the receiving end of the manservant’s gun as Mycroft was.

They walked quickly and quietly along the corridor and didn’t say another word until they reached the lift. Mrs Hudson asked the steward to take them up, and he closed the metal grille and pulled on the leaver, sending them up towards the outer decks.

“Mr Andrews is giving a tour of the ship, I thought we might join him.” Mrs Hudson said, conversationally, eying the steward, who was clearly listening to every word.

“That sounds enjoyable. Will there be many of us?” Mycroft asked, hoping she caught his meaning. Will there be many witnesses if Moriarty comes looking for me?

“No more than five plus us, I should think. But he’ll be taking us around busy parts of the ship, so we don’t want to be blocking people’s way.” Plenty of witnesses, but a small enough group that if you mysteriously disappear then you’ll be missed. Mycroft wondered how many times Mrs Hudson had done this before; saving the hapless stranger from her husband or one of his cronies. 

They caught up with Andrews’ tour in the gymnasium. A man rode an electronic horse, seated on a saddle that undulated beneath him, and a woman struggled to ride a stationary bicycle in her thick skirts. 

Mrs Hudson waved to a woman in a small group huddled around Mr Andrews, who was working the oars of a stationary rowing machine.

“Would you care to try it ma’am?” Andrews asked one of the women, “I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”

The woman sneered, and Mycroft recognised her as the Bonnell sister who had turned her nose up at Gregory’s ‘rootless existence’ last night (was it really only last night!). “I don’t think so” she said “I can hardly think of a skill I’m less likely to need.”

“Take that as a complement, Andrews” Mycroft called out, and the group laughed.

“Yes, quite” he said, setting the oars in their places and pulling himself to his feet. “Our next stop is the bridge, if you’d all please follow me.”

The group followed Andrews out of the gymnasium onto the deck. It was a pleasantly sunny day but there was a definite nip in the air- Mycroft was glad he has brought his coat. Mrs Hudson slipped her arm round his and huddled up to him, smiling at him as though this were the most natural thing on earth. Mycroft marvelled at the spontaneous physical affection and smiled, distracting himself by counting the lifeboats to stop himself from commenting or showing in any other way that he was not used to being held like this.

They climbed the stairs to the bridge and Andrews shook hands with the Captain, a military man in his early sixties with a neatly trimmed white beard. They exchanged a few quiet words before Andrews turned to them all.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Edward Smith.” 

There was a small round of applause from the tour group, and Mycroft noticed that one or two of the crew joined in. 

A junior officer came racing onto the bridge disturbing the celebration, a telegram in his hand.

“Another ice warning, sir!” he cried, ignorant of his audience. “This one from the Baltic!”

Captain Smith took the message and glanced over it nonchalantly before stuffing it into his pocket. He looked up at the stunned expectant faces of his audience and smiled, waving his hand as though he could brush away their panic. “Nothing to worry about, normal for this time of year.”

“Are you not concerned about icebergs, sir?” one of the young men asked.

“On the contrary, we’re speeding up. Mr Ismay wants to see if we can’t get to New York a day early, capture more headlines.”

Andrews scowled, but nobody seemed to be paying him any notice. 

Mycroft released Mrs Hudson’s arm and, while everyone else basked in the glory of meeting the captain, Mycroft approached Andrews.

“Mr Andrews, forgive me, I have a question, about the lifeboats?” Andrews nodded. “We have, I have heard it said, some 3,000 people on board, is that correct?”

“Including crew I believe there are some 3,300, that’s right.”

“But I have only counted 20 lifeboats. Which, forgive me again, is enough for below half.”

“Just 1,200 of us, that’s right. Mr Holmes, you miss nothing do you? I installed a new type of davit to install another row of lifeboats on the inside of the deck, but it was thought by some that it looked too cluttered, so I was overruled. But don’t be worrying, I’ve built you a sound ship.”

“Waste of deck space as it is, on an unsinkable ship!” Mycroft looked around for the speaker and was unsurprised to see it was the insufferable Bonnell girl. He would have to introduce her to Moriarty, he thought, the two of them would get on like a house on fire. 

“Your young man came to see me this morning.” Mrs Hudson whispered to him, when they were once again on the move.

“My young man?” Mycroft’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. He knew exactly who she meant, and Mrs Hudson’s raised eyebrow told him his feigned attempt at ignorance was a failure. “It’s too dangerous. That’s why I was so ‘ill’, he had us followed and had me confined when he didn’t like what he saw. He’ll have Gregory killed.”

“That boy isn’t going to take no for an answer, you know that don’t you? Not unless he thinks you truly don’t want him. Brave to the point of stupidity but brave all the same.”

“He doesn’t know what Moriarty can do” Mycroft muttered.

“Well then you’d better go tell him before he gets you into all kinds of trouble.” Mrs Hudson nodded towards one of one of the windows. Mycroft followed her gaze and spotted Gregory walking along the deck below wearing a borrowed coat and hat, looking up from under the brim as though hoping to see without being seen. “Talk to him” she whispered “I’ll keep watch from here.”

Mycroft made his way down on to the below deck and weaved between the people there until he reached the slouching figure of Gregory. He tapped his arm and his heart sank when he saw the elephant of joy in Gregory’s eyes.

“You’re a hard man to find” Gregory said, and Mycroft’s stomach back flipped at the forgotten tenor of Gregory’s voice. 

“Gregory, this is impossible, I can’t see you, it’s too dangerous, you can’t be here!” Mycroft whispered. Gregory’s smile deflated a few centimetres and placed his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. The sun had created a few new freckles on the corner of Gregory’s jaw. 

“Mycroft, you’re no picnic, you’re spoiled and you don’t even seem to know it. But you’re strong, and you have one of the purest hearts of anyone I’ve ever met-“

“Gregory-“

“No, let me get this out. “

Mycroft stopped, realising he had interrupted a practiced speech. Was this what Gregory had done when they left each other last night, had he really spent so long thinking about him? When Moriarty was dismantling the breakfast table, was Gregory planning a way to deliver this speech?

“Mycroft. You are one of the most amazing people I have ever met. Hey are keeping you in a glass jar like a science experiment and you’ll die if you don’t break free. Not right away. Because you’re strong, but I can’t stand and let it happen. You jump I jump, remember?”

Mycroft felt tears prickling behind his eyes. Gregory was so open and full of concern and- was it really affection? He daren’t believe it. He had to put it out, before it got them both killed.

“It’s not up to you to save me” Mycroft said, as coldly as he could manage.

“No, but I want to” Gregory replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He placed one hand under Mycroft’s chin and gently tilted Mycroft’s head up until they were once again making eye contact. Those eyes, full of truth and beauty, capable of seeing into another person’s soul, into Mycroft’s soul. And apparently capable of liking what he saw there. For a heart wrenching second, Mycroft thought, again that Gregory was going to kiss him, knew that if he leaned forwards and closed the gap between their lips that Gregory would not pull away. Not closing the gap was the hardest thing he had ever done. 

But he knew that if he did, if he took this thing any further than it had already gone, it would be impossible to escape from. He just didn’t have the willpower. He didn’t want to have the willpower. 

He forced himself to take a step back, to remove his face from Gregory’s reach.

“Leave me alone” he said, with as much coldness as he could muster while trying not to let the tears fall. “For both our sakes.”

As he walked away, he felt a heaviness in his chest that he knew even then was the absence of a part of himself. Part of his heart, now broken, remained in the alcove with Gregory.


End file.
